


Bound

by JaqofSpades



Series: Of ribbons and rope [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ribbon Bondage, Sex Toys, dangerously close to fluff, mild bondage themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s done fighting it, this need to be his.  Waved the white flag, negotiated her terms, and tendered her surrender.  A spring wedding, he had suggested, and she’d rejected the idea outright, simply refusing to wait.  Miles to walk her down the aisle, sure, but no attendants, no big fuss, no fancy party afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ILuvMyThesaurus (ImLuvinMyThesaurus)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImLuvinMyThesaurus/gifts).



> Written to coincide with Cornucopia/Pornicopia, but mainly for Thessie, to wish her a very happy Scorpio post-birthday ;)

Charlie takes a deep breath, and curses her vanity when her lungs can’t quite cooperate. Self-fucking-inflicted, she thinks, and tries not to smirk. She’ll happily endure a few hours in a too-tight corset to stick it to the Austin establishment, and that had just been a side benefit. Bass had gone from misty-eyed to I’m-going-to-fuck-you-six-ways-from-Sunday in one long stare, and he hasn’t even discovered her little surprise yet.

She feels her sex clench at the thought of it, and has to steady her breathing as she listens to the priest drone on. Is it sin to feel this horny in church? He’s going on about time honoured traditions and man and woman not being split asunder – heh - and for the love of God, please just hurry up and marry them already.

She’s done fighting it, this need to be his. Waved the white flag, negotiated her terms, and tendered her surrender. A spring wedding, he had suggested, and she’d rejected the idea outright, simply refusing to wait. Miles to walk her down the aisle, sure, but no attendants, no big fuss, no fancy party afterward.

“Yes, Mrs Monroe,” he’d growled, lifting her up onto his desk, fingers already tunnelling their way under her dress.

“Matheson-Monroe,” she’d fired back, trying to not to smile at the delicious noise he made when he discovered her lack of underwear.  He’d lost all decorum then, falling to his knees to bury his face in her pussy, and only stopping to yell at his secretary when she knocked on the office door.

“Cancel my meetings for the rest of the fucking day,” he’d bellowed, and “go ask the bishop how soon he can marry us.”

A month, it turned out, and only because the woman was a goddamn miracle worker. She really should --

“You may now exchange your vows.”

Note to self: payrise for Hope, Charlie thinks as she turns her face up to Bass.

“Charlotte. People look at us together and wonder how we can possibly work. After I tell them it’s none of their business, I sometimes wonder myself. Then you make me feel like an idiot because your smile makes it clear that you have forgiven me. Your laugh tells me I make you happy. The way you sleep in my arms tells me that with me, you feel safe. Those are the things that matter most in my world,” he says softly, eyes glistening once more.

“But that’s not why I know we will work. Because we always have, even when you hated me. You’re every bit as loyal, as stubborn, and as ruthless as I am, and together, we were damn near unstoppable. You are far more than just my love – you are the other half of my soul, and I have known that for more years than I care to admit.”

Her eyes blur a little, her heart slain by the admission that he has never quite managed to make before.

Then he raises his voice and makes it ring through the old church.

“My sword is yours. It has been yours from the day we met. It will be yours until the day I die,” he vows, ferocity raw in his voice. It’s a general’s declaration, completely lost on half of the people crowding the church, the soft civil servants and fluttering socialites forever jostling for power and position. But they know now, who she and Bass are. Will always be, no matter how much time they spend prowling the corridors of the Capitol building doing Blanchard’s dirty work.

Warriors, together. Forged in blood, and the sword, crowned by fire and destruction.

But that’s not all, Charlie’s heart screams. She had prepared some pretty words, carefully chosen reminders about respect and partnership that she and her mother had polished to a high lustre, but she abandons them without a second thought.

“The first time you saved my life, I couldn’t let myself be grateful. The things I was feeling – they were impossible, and I had to block them out, to the point where I couldn’t manage the most basic of courtesies. I couldn’t speak to you without snarling. I worried that if I said ‘thank you’, I would need to smile at you, need to watch you smile back. And I couldn’t let that happen. You know why.”

“So here are all the things I want to thank you for. Thank you for saving my life, Bass – over and over again. Thank you for giving me the skills I needed to save myself. Thank you for having my back when I didn’t care enough to keep my guard up. Thank you for helping me realise that no matter who you’ve lost, no matter what you’ve done, there’s still a chance to steal the train, stand up for a friend, save the town,” she grins.

“Thank you for waiting, and letting me sort my shit out. For loving me the whole time, but making sure I was ready before you let me fall truly in love with you. For knowing me better than I knew myself, and for giving me a precious, precious gift I never knew I needed,” she continues, emotion hoarse in her voice. “My sword is yours, my knife and my bow. Austin or Willoughby or Vegas or Philly, it didn’t matter. It never mattered,” she insists, drilling him with her fierce glare, unwilling to beg. “We were already bound.”

He swallows, overcome, and his grip on her hands becomes almost painful as the tears gather in his eyes. She waits, her eyes fixed to his face until the smile breaks, glorious and accepting. Yes, it says, you are right. Then his eyes narrow, twin slashes of predatory intent as they rake her from head to foot.

“Mine,” he mouths. “Bound.”

She just smiles, but lets her fingernails sink deep into the flesh of his palms, and tries not to giggle at the rush of heat that suffuses his face. Licks her lips instead.

The priest gasps in outrage, reminding Charlie that they’ve just exposed their souls in front of two hundred of Texas’ finest. Blanchard had insisted – something about election prospects and the power of a big state wedding – but it hadn’t been until Rachel put her foot down that Charlie conceded.

“You’re lucky we haven’t run off and gotten hitched already,” Charlie had raged, and “I don’t even know why we need to be married – it’s not like it means anything in this family,” she’d struck, and her mother’s eyes had filled with tears. Hadn’t stopped her from lifting her chin and hitting back, though.

“I married the wrong man, Charlie. But I stayed with him – tried with him – exactly because marriage does mean something. Something important. Don’t let my failures deprive you of this.”

So she’d succumbed, big white dress and the church – apparently a Cathedral because it had a bishop - and two hundred people she barely knew, and soon, coffee and cake and a meet and greet line before they could escape and truly pledge themselves to each other.

Yeah, they need to get to that part. Soon.

Say it, she wills the priest. Do it. Maybe we’ll be a touch less scandalous when we’re married.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

He sweeps her into him and licks his way into her mouth, one hand coming up to slide possessively over the daringly exposed mounds of her breasts. She opens wide on a moan, and their tongues tangle in a slow, dirty dance that is echoed in every wanton cell of her shameless, yearning body. And leaves all of Austin staring in stunned silence, they realise when they finally lift their heads.

Charlie grimaces a little when she notices the priest is actually blushing, then tries to smile like the politicians wife she now is when he harrumphs to clear his throat.

“President Blanchard, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Secretary and Mrs Monroe.

“Matheson-Monroe,” Charlie corrects, but no one except Bass hears her amidst the rapturous applause. He lifts their entwined hands to his mouth, and drops a kiss on her knuckles in apology, before ushering her over to sign the Register.

Charlie’s pulse starts to hammer as she realises she’ll be bent over in front of him as she signs. She glances up to see if there’s any break in the crowd, any way to escape, and there’s nothing, not here. He’ll be forced to endure it, her particular brand of loving torture, from the minute she turns her back until the moment they are finally alone. She bends a little lower, stretches across the table to pick up the fancy quill, and waits for him to notice.

The ribbon he’d given her on their first night together, woven through fifty eyelets marching down her spine, all the way to a small bow nestling into the curve of her back. She’d trimmed it, scrubbed at the stains with baking soda and lemon juice, and washed it twice, lost in a reverie of all the things he would remember when he saw it punctuating all that bridal white.

(This stain, from the time he’d crisscrossed it all the way up her thighs and ended up drenching it in the unceasing flood of her juices; this one from when she’d tied off his cock. This splotch, so even and wide – that had been the time he’d made her wait all day, one crisscross of ribbon keeping her raw and exposed by pushing her fleshy lips wide, a second framing her clit, pinching and rubbing every time she moved. “No touching,” he’d ordered, but it didn’t matter in the end: one smirk at her desperation and she had made him watch as she used the edge of his barstool to make herself come in the middle of happy hour at O’Malleys.)

Her hand is shaking when she takes the feathered quill and dips it in the ink. Charlotte Matheson-Monroe, she inscribes carefully, then leaves a blot on the page as a warm, heavy hand settles on her lower back.

His eyes are twin infernos as she straightens to hand him the quill, a smirk she knows better than to let free pulling infuriatingly at her lips.   He leans his head next to hers and breathes the words so softly there’s no chance of anyone but her hearing them.

Just as well.

“If you think you are making it out of this church without paying for that you are sadly mistaken.”

Charlie shudders, and has to resist the urge to grab him by his tie and drag him down the aisle

*

“Thank you, we’re very happy you could come. Thank you, it’s lovely to meet you at last. Thank you, I’ll make a point of dropping in. Thank you.”

Her mouth is numb with the stream of platitudes, her side burning with the heat of Bass standing next to her, and her libido ratcheting tighter every time Bass looks at her. Mostly, she has to make do with the boiling promise in his eyes, but every so often his hand strays, sliding down over her ribbons to tug at the bow below. Cupping the curve of her ass. Edging between the lacing to touch her bare skin.

And then another group descends on them, and they would have to shift their focus outwards once more, Secretary and Mrs Monroe once again.

(Married less than an hour and she’s already succumbing, Charlie thinks sourly. Does she have to be elected President herself before her own name makes an appearance once again?)

The end of the reception line stretches around the corner and out of sight, and she’s so ridiculously wet that it just as well they can’t sit down. She’d leave a wet spot, Charlie smirks, even through the silk knickers her mother had insisted she wear.

“Bass likes me bare,” Charlie had objected, mostly for the satisfaction of watching her mother blanch. “Well, mostly. Unless there’s a toy involved. Maybe …”

She’d been joking. Sort of. Bass had never stopped sending her gifts, the packages arriving every few days during the weeks they spent apart. The day she’d been silly enough to open one with her mother in the room, she was holding a pretty, ornately worked collar aloft, when her mother reached in to pull out a much larger box.

“Shoes, maybe?” Rachel had asked with an indulgent grin, then pulled the lid off to find a huge glass dildo, curving and lifelike right down to the heavy balls sprouting from its base.

“Erotic art,” Charlie had gasped, whisking it away before her mother could get a good look, her internal monologue a mortified chant of “oh fuck.”

Time – and the mindbending applications Bass had found for their oversized friend – had allowed her to be philosophical. At least it wasn’t the jeweled butt plug they both loved so much.

“What are you thinking about,” Bass murmurs close to her ear, the wash of hot breath making Charlie close her eyes in mute enjoyment.

She opens them a moment later to shake another set of sweaty hands – “thank you, wonderful to see you”, then turns to her husband before the next couple steps up.

“You putting me face down over that table.”

He has to turn his back to pretend-sneeze, and readjust himself in the thankfully loose pants of his morning suit.

“Careful, little cat,” he breathes in her direction as he returns to his place at her side, smile already beaming at the group of excited old biddies up next in the line.

They last twenty minutes more before Bass suddenly cries out, and drags her into his arms.

“Charlotte? Sweetheart? Just breathe, love. Breathe!”

She tries not to roll her eyes and concentrates on playing the patient.

“We’ll be right back after we’ve had some fresh air,” Bass apologises, hustling her towards a side door that opens to a room groaning with tables full of cakes. Somewhere, they can hear the hum of voices, but it doesn’t matter because here, now? They are alone.

He has his hand underneath her dress, stroking up over the silken knickers even before they crash against the wall.

“Tell me you don’t love these.”

“Why?”

He answers her question with a sudden tug at the delicate silk, so wet that it rends easily. “We’ve got five minutes the most. You’re gonna come all over fingers and then maybe I can fucking concentrate.”

She walks her hand down to grasp him through his trousers and leans up to lick a circle around the whorl of his ear. “I could suck you off quicker than that.”

But she’s lying, because he’s already found her clit, and it’s so swollen that he barely has to nudge it before she starts to shake.

“You’re mine. Mine. Scream it,” he growls into her ear as plunges two fingers deep into her channel.

“Yours,” she pants as she bites down on her lip to stop herself from obeying. “Yours, God, all yours,” she sobs, and the scream is rising up, rising up …

He takes her mouth, and lets her release it into his velvet depths as her orgasm crests, dumping her over and over onto the shores of bliss.

“Mine,” she groans as she slumps against his chest, and watches his eyes close with bliss as he starts to lick his fingers clean.

“Oh!”

The black-clad waitress flushes sex different shades of red as her eyes travel over Charlie’s wedding dress, still rucked up around her waist, her tattered knickers on show, evidence of their depravity still shiny on Bass’ fingers.

His eyes flick open, and she knows what it feels like before this man dives for his sword.

“No!” Charlie barks, even before she remembers neither of them are wearing swords. But weapons or otherwise, this girl shouldn’t have to pay for their indiscretion. “For fuck’s sake, Bass, be reasonable.”

He raises an eyebrow in her direction, then smiles, more abashed than she’s ever seen him. “Thought I had a few more days before I’d turn into a henpecked husband. Let me see if I’ve got this right – yes, dear.”

The tiny giggle from the girl reminds them both she’s still there, and when their gazes swing back to her, she takes that as permission to flee. Then she stops.

“Uh – there’s a storeroom back there. I have a key,” she blurts, then pales, backtracking at a rate of knows. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Mr Secretary. Ma’am. I didn’t mean to suggest you were the type of people who--”

“Fuck in public places?” Charlie raises one eyebrow, daring the girl to suggest otherwise.

“Make love,” Bass interjects, eyes soft as they roam her face. His mouth twitches as he turns to their unwitting interloper. “Tell me more about this key.”

The little brunette lets go of her anxiety in one long breath before leaning back to check no one is coming. “It’s the only one, and I need to return it to them by five,” she whispers, reaching into her bra to extract a small key.

“If we’re still here at five, shoot me,” Charlie begs with a grin. “We’ll get back to you, I promise.”

“Ask for Callie. And, uh – congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Charlie smirks, and slides the key into Bass’ pocket. “I mean – really. Thank you.”

“Mr Secretary, Mrs Matheson-Monroe,” the girl half-curtsies as she backs out of the room.

Maybe it’s the fact that someone finally got her name right that fills Charlie with a renewed sense of responsibility. Bass is already backing her towards the storeroom, but she can hear the hubbub of excited voices outside, and is shot through by a pang of guilt.

Bass groans when she looks up to catch his eye.

“Nooooo. Storeroom. Wedding day. Sweet, fuckable wife.”

“Some of those people came from Willoughby, Bass. Just to wish us well. Some of them fought with us. Let’s just go out there and finish this and I swear – the minute they take their eyes off us, the storeroom it is.”

This time, he pouts, but it flows almost naturally.

“Yes, dear.”

*

They finish the line with a half hour of frenzied handshaking and greetings so cursory some would call them rude. Just not to the face of the man most people still call General Monroe behind his back.

“And now it’s time to cut the cake,” Blanchard crows, and shuffles them towards the giant sugared monstrosity in the centre of the room.

Charlie and Bass make the first cut, are served the first slices, then eat their cake demurely, eyes on the throng all excited by their slice of fancy wedding cake.

They take a step backwards almost simultaneously, and then another, and then turn to walk through the vestry as if they had all the time in the world. Bass showers the cook in compliments as they enter the work room, and Charlie exchanges a significant glance with their favourite waitress.

“Mr Trudeau? I promised to show Mrs Matheson-Monroe some of the napery for an upcoming event at the Capitol – would you excuse us?”

“Of course. I need to check on how the hors d’oeuvres are holding out anyway. Mr Secretary,” he nods, then scurries off.

“You’ve got a job with us anytime you want it,” Bass promises the girl as she backs out of the room with a smile. “Just ask.”

“I will,” she grins. “You guys just … enjoy.”

Charlie is still thinking about that grin as they stumble into the little room and struggle to lock the door in the darkness. Her mouth travels all over Bass’ neck before she manages to find his lips, and she kisses her conclusion into half a dozen sweet, scratchy patches of skin.

“Bet there’s a man,” she says, then moans as his hands press her breasts together to lift them clear of the corset-style bodice.

“What man?” Bass mumbles around her nipple, then rakes her with his teeth in reprimand. “No thinking about other men while we consummate our marriage.”

“Not me, moron. Her. I figure you don’t look at the storeroom that way unless you’ve used it that way yourself.”

“Mmm. Maybe. Maybe they were working and he flipped that little black skirt up and ate her out until she begged him to stop,” Bass breathes into her ear, his fingers replacing his mouth as the instrument of her torture. “Maybe they did it doggy style, fucking so hard everything fell off the walls.”

“Maybe they made a baby,” Charlie gasped as one hand abandoned her nipple to cup her sex, sliding back and forth in the luxurious slipperiness.

His hand stills, his body tense and breathing ragged. How stupid, she thinks. Marrying the man without ever asking if he wanted more children. She’d just assumed --

Then she hears the slight hiccup in his voice, and even though she can’t see it, knows his eyes are suddenly wet. His voice scrapes like sandpaper when he finally manages to speak.

“Is that what you want, sweetheart? So soon? I thought maybe a year or two, if I was lucky, but I never dreamed …”

Nor had she, really. Not beyond a gentle daydream, or a midnight fantasy. They’d come close, so many times, his frenzied exclamations ringing in her ears as he pulls himself free of her channel, body already jerking. She’d drizzled his seed through her fingers, spread it over her belly, felt its sticky warmth on her tongue, her legs, her ass, her back: everywhere except where nature had intended it to be.

 _How many babies had been born from this ridiculous primal urge_ , she snaps at herself, and _not fucking sensible, Charlie_. But she’s 26 years old. Married. A baby …

“I want to feel you inside me. Coming inside of me,” she confesses. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if it happened?”

“Not the worst,” he agrees, voice rich with his delight. “But you get to tell the kid he was conceived in the church’s storeroom.”

“Deal,” she grins, and it’s giddy, after that, joyous and clumsy and a race to see how fast he can be inside her body. Her hands scrabble in the dark, pulling helplessly at the belt she can’t see to open, the buttons she can’t see to undo. When he finally surges hot and hard into her hand, the blunt tip already damp with moisture, and Charlie can’t help herself. She shoves him away and spins herself round to brace her palms against the door.

“Like you said,” she demands. “Doggy style.”

His hands find purchase on her still-clothed hips, and then Charlie starts to moan at the slow push of his cock into her blood-flushed centre. He’s a blanket of heat at her back as he eases in, then pauses to kiss his way down her neck as he lets her adjust, then slams all the way in.

Charlie has to pull a handful of skirt up to stuff in her mouth as the urge to sing his praises mounts. For all the toys hidden in her house, all their ropes and ribbons and dancing-on-the-edge games, the sensation of his cock plunging into her, the feeling of being totally and utterly filled by him – it’s her favourite thing.

Nothing quiets her demons faster. Nothing makes her feel more alive. Nothing can fling her off the precipice quicker than the two-fold magic of his fingers on her clit and his swollen cock pounding at the entrance to her womb. Nothing perhaps, except …

He collapses forward, lips slicking a crazy path over her bare shoulders and down her spine until he comes into contact with the top of her dress – and the ribbon, weaving its way down her back. He releases her hips to move his hands higher, twining his fingers in her lacing as if it is the one thing anchoring him to Earth. They transform into a single, shaking, jerking mess as her sex devours his cock, clutching him like a velvet fist as he finds his release in long, hot spurts of terrifying possibility.

Soon, baby, soon, Charlie thinks deliriously. Maybe today, maybe next month. Maybe in a year. It doesn’t matter.

We are already bound.

_fin_


End file.
